


Morning Light

by scifishipper



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-03
Updated: 2010-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifishipper/pseuds/scifishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kara sketches in the mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the BSG_PornBattle on LJ. Prompts: drawing nude lee, sunrise

Kara doesn't remember why she started drawing again, pulling out her pencils from the box she'd stashed under the bed. Maybe it was that trip to the museum, seeing the students sketching nudes and prone figures, that had inspired her. She'd thought about taking a class, but that seemed weird and her skills were too rusty to reveal to strangers. Flying was something she'd show off, garnering praise and awed whispers, but drawing and art, well, that was something altogether different and more private, and even Lee didn't know.

She was good at hiding things, had been since childhood, when her mother would take her small treasures and break them to make a point or a lesson that she hadn't really needed to learn. Even now the habit of keeping things to herself lingered, and she'd jam the pad and her pencils under the mattress before Lee stirred in the mornings.

Kara remembered what it felt like to be inspired, to feel the tingle in her belly and the itching in her fingers, needing to put pencil to paper and bring images to life. Inspiration had hit her unexpectedly one morning, as she padded out of the bathroom in the brightening morning light, glancing over at a sleeping Lee, half in shadow, partially lit by the rising sun. Usually, seeing his naked form inspired something altogether different, and she'd slide herself back between the sheets and reach around to stroke him awake, sometimes taking him in her mouth or jerking him off, and he'd laugh, remarking on the wonder of sunrise in the Adama-Thrace household.

Most mornings, the sun would wake her and she'd pull out her supplies and start to sketch, propelled by her desire to mark his perfection as solely hers, trapped between the pages of her sketchpad. The pencil was light in her relaxed fingers, holding but not gripping – a pilot's hand – drawing lighter then thicker strokes as she became aroused by the process of gazing upon and marking out his sleeping figure. The sensation of her fingertips brushing over the penciled lines of his shoulders and hips and thighs made her ache and she'd pause to slide her hand between her legs, dipping into the wetness, eyes half-lidded and the pencil tossed aside. With quick motions, she'd bring herself to orgasm, and wait for the fog of desire to ease away before she'd continue, drawing as long as she could before she abandoned the page to step over to the bed, hiding her supplies haphazardly before joining him under the sheets.

On those days, she'd want more than to wake him with a dizzying orgasm; she'd need to have him inside her, thrusting up as she rode him, scraping her nails across his abdomen, and tickling his face with her hair. He'd wonder aloud at her fervor and she'd just smile, that secret-keeping smile that he knew so well. And he'd accept it, knowing that sooner or later, she'd reveal herself to him shyly, or boldly with off-putting words, as was her way. But in the moment, he'd just let her take him, burning out the sleepy haze with heat and wet and friction until she was chanting breathlessly in his ear that she loved him, and he would always crumble, losing himself in the words that he'd waited all of those years to hear.

When they finished, she'd grin, satisfied, and make some joke about his lazy ass still in bed and then he'd chase her to the shower. She'd always step in first, laughing at his failed attempts to beat her there, never realizing that he'd moved away, back into the bedroom to straighten the pages she'd wrinkled with her shoving of the pad under the mattress. And he'd pick up the pencil by the chair, dropping it neatly into the box and tucking it alongside, smiling to himself and wondering how she never noticed that things were always different at sunrise.


End file.
